


Evening Best

by keire_ke



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Samtasha if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:36:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5164076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keire_ke/pseuds/keire_ke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that SHIELD is no more, the special operations become a little patchwork. Sure, they still have amazing tech, but their budget is limited and the personnel slightly amateurish. By which of course Sam means the personnel is fully professional, just not in the profession in question. He's a soldier, not a spy, although to his eternal shame he will work for fancy champagne and shrimp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evening Best

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by Nyxira. Thank you darling! <3

This may be the greatest show on earth, Sam thinks, as he watches Steve struggle into a tuxedo. "Come on," he says. "This is hardly more restrictive than a uniform, and I have seen some of the uniforms you wear."

"There's nothing wrong with uniforms," Steve mutters, fumbling with the loose ends of his bowtie. "I like my uniforms. Most of them. This is just… awkward."

"Well, you look good enough to eat, in any case," Natasha says, sashaying into the room, and wow, Sam thinks, she really cleans up nicely. Not that she doesn't dirty-up nicely, but Natasha Romanoff in a fitting black dress and a garnet necklace so elaborate it almost hides the plunging neckline is a sight a man could go dumb for. The fantastic view is totally lost on Steve, but Steve would miss a charge of rhinoceroses if Bucky stepped into a room in warm socks and a woolly sweater, which he did presently.

Speaking of noticeable, however. Sam is a respectful kind of guy, and he will swear he is not being creepy and staring at his female coworker's thoracic areas (sweet Baby Jesus, give him strength to look away), but hot damn. "Uh. Not that I am questioning the," vague hand motions indicate the entirety of Black Widow's evening best, "but aren't we supposed to be low-key?"

"Where we're going," she says cocking a hip for good measure, which does _things_ to her neckline, holy shit, ma'am, have mercy, "opulence and cleavage make a woman invisible."

"I'm having a hard time imagining a place where that look would make anyone invisible."

"We shall broaden your education, then." She opens her tiny purse and arranges the items inside so they are easy to reach: a lipstick, a fancy pen which Sam knows for a fact is a hand-grenade, and whatever else ladies carry in their purses. Nothing surprises Sam on that front anymore. One of his ex-girlfriends carried packets of cricket food.

"Isn't that the wrong shade?" he asks when she inspects the lipstick, which is a pale, glistening skin-tone pink and in liquid form, a stark contrast to the matte blood-red adorning her lips.

"This one's drugged." Natasha tips the tube and squints at it. "In the business we call it a goodnight kiss. I used it on another mission, and it's the only one I have left. As this isn't an official Avenger outing, we're on a bit of a budget."

"You have drugged lipstick?" Steve asks, scandalized. "What if you kissed someone?"

"That's rather the idea," she tells him. "I also have drugged condoms."

Steve stares at her in shock. "But—"

"Those, however, I left in my other purse." She tucks the purse deep into hammer space and opens the briefcase Bucky carried in after her. "Now, this is very delicate, so we need to be very careful. Sam, sit down."

Sam sits, and allows the Black Widow to apply a feather-light mesh to his face, tucking it into the surprisingly comfortable wig he was forced into earlier. With a flicker of her fingers the mesh takes hold, clinging to his skin, sending a faint buzz humming through his facial muscles every now and then. It's sorta like being doused with a fizzy drink. By no means an unpleasant reminder that his face was covered in cutting-edge technology, which Sam was only slightly conflicted about. He'll wear a jet pack, but weird face-hugging mesh was a different kind of animal. "How does it feel?"

"It's not uncomfortable," Sam admits as he stands up to inspect the results in the mirror. He's still black, but his hair is in a respectable afro and his features unfamiliar. His beard is gone, which makes him sad, and his cheekbones less defined, but his jawline could give Captain America's a run for its money. "This has to be so useful for spying."

"I prefer to work with makeup, personally, but those options are limited and we are kind of famous right now." She flicks her fingers behind her ear and her own face comes online: round baby-blue eyes, achieved via contact lenses, a few less crow's feet in the crinkling corners of her eyes, natural black hair with coppery highlights, which tumbles out of an artfully messy bun on top of her head, to frame her face with perfect curls. Through a pane of glass she would look like a model on a cover of a magazine, Photoshop and all.

"Are you going to be fine?" Steve asks Bucky meanwhile, still fighting to get the buttons of the cummerbund done right.

Bucky stares at him. "I'm in danger of running out of popcorn," he says eventually, looking at the cumbersome cummerbund, which Steve's just righted. He steps in, slaps Steve's hands away from his bowtie and refolds it into the neatest knot Sam has ever seen. He's still not looking at Steve, not directly; his gaze is alternating between the fancy wool of the jacket (thank you, Tony Stark, Sam thinks, rubbing the hem of his own between his fingers), and the painting hanging across the room. "It doesn't suit you at all," Bucky says, smoothing out the fabric of Steve's shirt so that it fits smoothly underneath the lapels, "but you look good."

Steve bends his head a little, and if Sam was any less removed from college, he would have yelled at them to get a room, goddamn it, because they are standing so close Steve would actually button up his tux into Bucky's buttonholes, if Bucky wasn't wearing something that at least three sheep bravely sacrificed their wool for and therefore looked a lot like a sheep himself. "Thank you," Steve whispers to his orange-hued little lost sheep, and his fingertips brush the wide, woolly collar, tugging it an inch or two on their way down to Steve's side.

Bucky nods and withdraws to his favorite spot in the corner of the room, from where he can watch Natasha push Steve into a chair and apply dabs of foundation and powder.

"How come Steve doesn't have to wear the face-hugger? He's a lot more recognizable than I am."

"Yes, which is why we need him to be out in the open."

"Are we ready for this?"

"Let's hope so," says Steve, awkwardly dragging the pad of his forefinger down his cheek. "This feels a lot better than the stuff we had in the forties."

"It is a lot better," Natasha says at the same time as Sam asks, incredulously, "You wore make-up in the forties?"

"I starred in movies. Of course I wore make-up." Steve takes the little mirror from Natasha and inspects his matte skin. "I almost got arrested for public indecency once when I walked off a movie set for my break. Luckily the girls fluttered out after me and the policeman decided I probably wasn't lying about being an actor."

"My god, this is disturbing," Sam says, and discovers to his pleasant surprise, that he sounds like Darth Vader when breathless with indignation. "On second thought, I could get used to this."

He couldn't, really. Still, the mission is relatively straightforward: infiltrate a gala, using Steve as a very obvious beacon to draw attention away from everyone else. From there they will gain access to the private suite of a Russian attaché, rumored to be tied with the Red Room, of which Sam actually knows nothing, but Natasha's gaze goes flat whenever it is mentioned, which makes it bad. Natasha thinks there might be useful intel in his hotel room, which will be vacated soon after the gala, while the man fades into the mists of Moscow, where tracking him would be impossible and impractical. The plan is simple, well-crafted and the only thing Sam has any doubts about is actually Steve. Sam understands subterfuge. He may be a soldier, but he's not immune to this James Bond shit, so covert missions, while not his thing, he can still do, if tuxedos are involved. Steve though.

"Why is Steve coming along, again? I get the part where everyone will look at him, don't get me wrong, but it still seems like something you'd be best suited to deal with on your own."

"If Dunayevsky is from the Red Room, we might need to fight our way out," Natasha tells him. "If there is a Widow with him, we will need all the help we can get."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, aren't Widows trained in noticing things like us? Me?"

"Yes."

"So how great are our chances?"

"To not get noticed? If he brought a Widow, nil." Natasha looks at Steve's ramrod-straight back and smirks, somehow managing to look exactly like Natasha without looking anything like her. Her amusement is warranted, as Sam knows for a fact that Steve sleeps at a horizontal parade rest, while snoring God Bless America, so fat chance this gets them anywhere.

"We are so screwed. Why didn't you take Barton, or Stark? He's at home in a tux."

"It's lambing."

"What?"

"I meant to say Clint is busy, and Stark wouldn't be able to keep his cover if his cover was a titanium-gold armor."

"This whole operation is somewhat poorly conceived, wouldn't you say?"

"Relax. Just because you two get made, doesn't mean I will," she tells him sweetly. "Do you remember your escape routes?"

"Roof, back, main door, first floor, third if necessary, fourth if you're Steve."

"Well done."

"You're not exactly amping up my confidence, lady."

"Oh, you'll do fine!"

Sam is actually not a dumb grunt, thank you very much. He's well-read and articulate, and reasonably bright, altogether. He's got training in human psychology and a nice, solid wad of experience under his belt. He charmed old Afghan ladies into making him cups of tea after he helped them across mined roads, and that was well before he picked up a lick of Pashto. Which is why this setup is a little insulting. "You're using me as bait, aren't you," he states flatly, somewhat gratified when Steve turns to look at Natasha, scandalized.

"I'm not carting you along for your blending in skills, no offence."

"That's fair," Sam says and sighs. He has always been the go-to kid when the school play needed trees or stage hands. "For the record, I hate spy work."

"Which is why you will leave the actual spying to me. I need you two to behave as inconspicuously as possible, and enjoy yourselves. Schmooze a little, Sam, think of it as the world's most elaborate Halloween party. And Steve—your presence has driven the invitation prices through the roof. This is a charity ball. Do your part and sell some of that famous old-time charm and help some needy children."

"You do remember I grew up practically in the docks? All the charm I ended up absorbing involves blowing smoke in a woman's face as an opening gambit."

"That got you anywhere, out of interest?"

"I couldn't talk to a girl if I got written instructions, actually, so no."

"It going to be a lot easier now, Captain Rogers," Natasha says. "Simply smile and share your thoughts on vaccination, and I guarantee you will have an audience all night."

"I don't want an audience," Steve mutters petulantly, folding his arms and then unfolding them again, mindful of the crisp lines of his tuxedo. "I want to stay home."

"James will be fine for the evening, Steve." Natasha brushes a stray lock of hair away from her forehead and far in the corner Bucky raises an eyebrow.

"I know he'll be fine."

"He's a big boy, who can read and has access to every TV channel on planet Earth. Possibly beyond, if Tony had a chat with Thor lately."

"I don't like leaving him alone," Steve says, and Sam muffles a snicker when Bucky very clearly signs "he is still here". Someone's been spending time with Barton, looks like. And good for him. "What if something happens? What if there is an attack?"

Sam catches Natasha's eye – well, he knows he's doing it, to Steve it's probably John Senai sharing a look with Olga Tvardovska – and very emphatically rolls his own. Oh man.

"Steve," Natasha says, and though it's not unkind, there's no disguising the fact she's containing her laughter, "we are in the most secure building on planet Earth, guarded by so many biometric locks that the common cold has trouble getting in, and your blushing bride has the ramming power of a certified tank. I think he's going to survive an evening on his own."

Steve, predictably, stutters and hisses and spits. "That's not the— He's not—"

But they never get to hear the thrilling sputter of denial and declaration of innocent friendship, because in that moment Pepper Potts knocks on the door and smiles. "Excuse me. Your ride is here."

Natasha smiles, or rather Olga does, because her smile is soft and slipping and vacuous, none of the razors and venomous wit that permeates Nat's grins, yet it is Natasha who speaks. "Radio silence, gentlemen. Anything that stands out can and will be used against us."

"Are you sure you're going to be okay, Bucky?" Steve asks, anxiety pouring off of him, despite the fact that Bucky is rolling his eyes. "Because they can manage without me."

"Why Captain, you wound me!" Natasha cries, and tears shine in her-but-not-really-hers pretty eyes. "You promised!"

It is perhaps less effective than the thoroughly unsubtle shove that Bucky delivers, one firm enough to cause Steve to stumble, yet careful enough not to cause excessive flailing and thus unwanted creasing.

"Go," he simply says, turns around and leaves, taking Natasha's briefcase and most of Steve's attention with him.

"Well, let's hope today goes smoothly, I don't think we're operating at full throttle," Sam says, but takes Natasha's arm and politely escorts her downstairs, where they get into the second limo that's waiting for them, and coincidentally the more opulent one. Steve slips into the government-issued non-descript black vehicle, driven by someone who smells like an agent from a mile off. Sam sees them exchange terse pleasantries, something the man will be telling his grandchildren, considering the small yip he lets out once he closes the door after their national treasure.

There's no need to keep up appearances in the limo, as the driver is one of Stark's permanent staff, but what the hell, Natasha is pouring and so they partake in bubbles along the way. It's a way to get into character, Sam supposes as he looks up the brand on the complimentary StarkPad – it might be useful for his cover to know the taste and mark of fine champagne, and he needs practice – and nearly chokes on a mouthful. "This champagne costs a thousand dollars per bottle?"

"Does it?" Natasha takes another sip, swishes it through her mouth. "Wow, it was a bargain."

"Nat—"

"Relax, John," she tells him pointedly. Out of her purse comes an embossed invitation. "Do you remember your briefing?"

"I'm an Ethiopian entrepreneur, looking to invest in Russia without actually going to Russia. Fan of the fine arts, although nothing the local galleries hold, I'm more of a patriotic patron. Keen hunter and ecologist. Very passionate about climate change. Not so good with Slavic languages, hence the completely platonic acquaintance slash Russian interpreter," he tips his glass in Natasha's direction, "I'm awesome at English though, hence my fantastic Boston accent, which I also owe entirely to my Harvard education."

"Well done, you."

"This is so not up my alley," Sam says when they pull up to the hotel tonight's party is hosted at and the door is being wrenched open against a horde of paparazzi, who, thankfully, have better things to do than watch Ethiopian entrepreneurs and their hot interpreters, not when Captain America had arrived moments previously, looking like a million dollars. Then again, to those people a million dollars was probably something like the money you shake out of a carpet when spring-cleaning, so what does Sam know? Steve looks good, even if he's with Bucky on that one: the tux doesn't suit him at all.

At least he doesn't look their way, which is good. Sam smiles at the paparazzi and allows Natasha to steer him, half-blind, through the flashing crowds. "How do people do that?" he asks, when they reach the relative quiet of the corridor.

"It can be intoxicating."

"So is cocaine."

"And so they often go hand-in-hand." Natasha's eyelids flutter and her smile sheds the spice in favor of candy and everything nice. She sweeps the main hall with her gaze and turns to Sam, as though to kiss his cheek. "Target at eleven o'clock."

"Got it. Steve at twelve."

"Good. Now, let's get to work."

Easily said, the doing part, however… Dunayevsky doesn't even look their way. Oh, he's polite and interested, slips Sam – John, damn it, his name is John – his business card, offers support for when his company chooses to branch out into Russian markets, admires Olga's necklace, but if his gaze strays to her breasts, it's by accident, not design. It takes two solid hours of schmoozing in the vicinity of the Russian plutocrat before Natasha grows discouraged and abandons Sam by the buffet table – thank god, finally! – to patrol the room. Oh, she offers up bullshit to cover it up, but hey, free grub. Sam's digging it, even if some of the rich people stuff is not his thing, the amount if heartening and the taste more than okay. He kinda likes the feeling he's eating up his whole weekly salary in less than a dozen bites and doesn't have to worry about it.

Sam's living it up until someone swipes the shrimp he had his designs on and he almost glares, but then he looks up and his mind goes blank. Bucky is staring at him, his head cocked, looking… well fuck me with an AK-47, Sam thinks. Bucky's hair is slicked back, his face is smooth like the proverbial infant ass and the rest of him is dolled up in a tuxedo so fancy it should get an automatic knighthood. He looks exactly what a Chanel commercial promises a man would look like if he shelled out two hundred bucks for three ounces of perfume.

"Don't let Steve see you, I think he might combust," Sam says under his breath. "How is it going, stranger?"

The corners of Bucky's mouth stretch into Natasha's rendition of Olga's childish grin. "Ask me to dance," he suggests ducking his head.

This makes no sense at all, unless something was left out of the briefing. "Would you care to—"

"No. Not like that. Take my hand and lead me out to the dance floor," Bucky tells the lone shrimp perched unhappily on his plate, then looks up and smiles again, vacuous and candy-sweet.

"As long as you promise Steve won't kill me for this."

Bucky' sweet smile flickers into surprise for a brief moment. "What does Steve have to do with it?"

How is this Sam's life? Super assassins are supposed to be observant! But Natasha is away, and Sam does enjoy a dance, so why the fuck not, they might as well talk while waltzing. He takes Bucky by the hand and, as ordered, leads him out to the dancefloor, where he remembers he's actually not that great at dancing with a partner (complaint A), who is bigger than him (complaint B), and ballroom (complaint C). "I might be bad at this," he warns.

"Splay your hand and pull me in close," Bucky instructs, somehow making himself small enough for Sam to survey the ballroom over his ear. None of the fighting for the lead bullshit, good. On the other hand, Sam muses, the Winter Soldier, the grandfather of assassin ghost stories, is tucked into my arms like a twink in a high-school rom com porn. Somewhere in the afterlife Salvador Dali just whipped out his paintbrushes, because surreal doesn't even begin to cover this shit. "This is waltz, left foot forward, right ahead and to the side."

Easy for him to say, Sam thinks, but waltz turns out to be easy. Hell: Sam's not made of stone, and Bucky smells damn good. It would have gone better if he was leading, because Sam's got no illusions at this point: Bucky is the superior dancer. And the superior tux-wearer, too. Sam catches his own reflection in the mirror, and hot damn, son, your ass looks fine! Unfortunately, Bucky owns the getup in a way Sam can only dream off, and yes, it reflects on the rear parts of his anatomy. Shame on Steve, for not tapping that.

"So, can I ask what brings you here, other than the burning need to show us mortals how to wear tuxedoes properly?"

"Dunayevsky is homosexual," Bucky says.

"Oh wow. Now I get why Natasha made no progress. You couldn't have said earlier?"

"I didn't realize. I saw a picture in the file Natalia left after you've gone." Bucky falters, nearly stumbles, and Sam pulls him closer, without losing his balance mid-turn. He's pretty goddamned proud of himself, until he realizes like hell the stumble wasn't intentional. "I killed his lover while they were in bed together."

Well, fuck.

"Sorry, man."

"He was a middle-aged communist zealot who liked to fuck his young subordinates and who sent thousands of people to gulags. Dunayevsky was one of the few who were actually homosexual, too."

"I'm slightly less sorry now."

"When the song ends, keep your hand on my back, escort me to that pillar on your right and flag down a waiter for champagne."

"Can I ask, out of idle curiosity, what is it you're trying to accomplish?"

Bucky averts his eyes and if he didn't know better, Sam could swear he flushed. "Introduce me!" he hisses and moments later Sam turns to a polite if imposing cough, only to find Dunayevsky devouring poor Bucky alive with his eyes.

"Mr. Senai. I see you're not quite so friendless, first Miss Tvardovska, now Mr.?"

"Rogers," Sam says smoothly. "James Rogers. James, this is Mr. Dunayevsky."

Bucky stares at him and now he's definitely blushing. Possibly with the promise of murder, but hey, it's a good night and Sam's on his second glass of ridiculously expensive champagne. He can handle a murder attempt.

"John," Natasha's velvety voice interrupts. "I see you found a friend?"

Again: suck it, Oscars. You wouldn't know she'd ever laid eyes on Bucky if—no, actually, if Sam didn't know for a fact she spent her Thursdays afternoons as a human pillow for super-soldiers in need of a movie night, he'd have sworn before any judge she'd never seen the man before.

"We've only just met," Sam says, and Bucky offers up a shy smile and once again Sam is struck by how similar it is to Natasha-as-Olga's. Certainly it's something that belongs on the face of a twenty-something house bunny rather than a – how old is Bucky again? – year-old assassin with Issues. "James is a fantastic dancer."

"Oh is he?" Dunayevsky, eyes aglow, all but throws his glass at a passing waiter and spirits Bucky away to the dancefloor, and yeah. Up close it is pretty fucking obvious.

"That went over well," Sam says. He's a little offended, to be honest. People have bounced quarters off his ass, but clearly in Soviet Russia the catch misses you. Or maybe Dunayevsky just likes them tall and twinky. He's about to voice his complaints, but there is a sudden atmospheric front at his side, one that is not happy.

"What the fuck?" Steve breathes into his ear, and Sam jumps fifty feet into the air and slams his head into the ceiling. Figuratively.

"Captain Rogers," he says pleasantly, struggling for composure. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

"Omigosh, you're Captain America!" Natasha squeals and her-not-her dark curls bounce. "I'm such a huge fan! Will you sign an autograph? My roommate would be soooo stoked, she literally cannot shut up about you. We have your posters in every room!"

Sam can see his and Natasha's actual names get bitten down and swallowed. Steve is glaring, which really makes him think the dancing was not the greatest plan.

"James says Dunayevsky is gay." Not that he needs to be, because frankly Sam and his bi-curiosity are still regrouping. "I think he's just usurped your job, by the way," he tells Natasha, and then turns back to Steve. "Where did he get the tux? I'm not an expert, but that looked like it fit him exactly, and let me tell you, hot damn, Cap, your boy looks good in a tux."

"What?" Steve hisses, and Sam feels a little bad.

"Well, she wasn't getting anywhere."

Natasha takes stock of the room, then smiles vacuously, tilts her perfect head and says in a voice that's half-giggle, "he's no Widow, but he had some training." She then adds, self-deprecating, "both of them. I didn't expect that. This, however, explains why there are no Widows that I could see."

"He was in the RR?" Sam asks curiously. "Weren't your folks a little more female orientated? Then again, I don't even know why anything surprises me."

"In 1990 they brought him out to assassinate a Russian oppositionist in the middle of a rally. It had to be close, quick and invisible, in the middle of a crowd. They gave him a child so he wouldn't stand out. I can only assume this wasn't the first time social camouflage was required." Natasha snags a lonely shrimp from the table. "Mmm, I love shrimp."

"So you're saying he can handle this?" Sam asks, carefully stamping down on the burning curiosity.

"I don't think he's great at extracting information, luckily interrogating Dunayevsky is pointless. We need access to his files. Laugh at something I said, now. It's still early, so I assume he'll have James escorted to his room while he makes his exit, he wouldn't want to draw attention to the fact that he's leaving with someone. He has a wife in St. Petersburg, so he'll have the video footage of the corridor blanked out, just in case."

"I thought he was gay."

"He's Russian," Natasha says, as if that explained everything, and who knows, maybe it did, if Sam's knowledge of current events was up to date. "I can't see him," she adds in her best I-fought-my-Russian-accent-off-with-a-stick-with-glitter-on-it voice.

Steve starts at that, looks around frantically. It's true. Bucky is not in the ballroom.

More disturbingly, neither is Dunayevsky.

"Huh," Sam says, mostly to himself. "This could be bad?"

"If he has RR ties he could have recognized Bucky," Steve hisses and this is not good. Bucky's face is not that well-known, especially bereft of wartime scruff, but if someone with Hydra ties saw him…

Natasha swears under her breath. Steve has a quiet internal fit. Sam focuses. "Dunayevsky is in suite 1404. I saw his keycard when he gave me his card."

"Well done, soldier," Natasha breathes. "Steve, go as high as you can, then scale the building. Sam and I are going straight up. We'll meet in the room."

It's fun to watch Captain America affect a powerful need in a room full of people greedy for his presence. Sam imagines the parting of the Red Sea evoked similar feelings in the Hebrews. He has little time to ponder this, however, because Natasha is drawing him into an inconspicuous dance that, completely by accident, lands them both in the lobby and by the elevators.

"Do you think Dunayevsky recognized him?" Sam asks under his breath while Natasha checks her bracelets, which start to emit a suspicious blue glow, and slips out of her obscenely high heels.

"We have to entertain the possibility."

"Shit."

"There's no indication he is Hydra. He probably doesn't have means to subdue Bucky, he's going to occupy him. We have time."

"How much time?"

"Ten minutes?"

"Fuck," Sam says and flexes his shoulders. On the bright side, they can now kick ass, which is something more up his alley.

Natasha plasters herself to his side when they exit the elevator on the fourteenth floor, all giggles and gropes, but the only man there pays them little to no mind, until she sprays him in the face with her perfume bottle. He goes down like a rock. A heavily armed rock, Sam notices seconds later, when he hefts the snoring body over his shoulders and staggers to the door while trying to ignore the hard, angular shape digging into his neck.

Natasha doesn't bother knocking. She slips a master key into the lock and opens the door, allowing Sam to slip in after her, and dump the body on the floor.

The suite is quiet, which is why Sam shrieks when Steve pushes the window open and rolls into the room, even though he makes little noise. He straightens immediately and sweeps the room with his gaze, glaring when his eyes land on Sam and Natasha, but no Bucky. It's good to know where you fall on Captain America's list of priorities, Sam thinks and sniggers.

"Bedroom," Natasha orders in a whisper.

They creep to the door as one, their feet making little noise thanks to the plush carpet. On three, Sam sees Natasha signal and then—

"I don't know what I was expecting," Sam says when Natasha nudges the door open and they find Dunayevsky laid out on the enormous bed, along with what looks like two very bulky bodyguards. All three seem to be breathing and Sam can see no blood spatter in their cozy Russian threeway, so the fact that Bucky is cowering in the corner is peculiar, to say the least.

"I panicked," he confesses in a whisper and curls up on himself, his overt misery lending the tuxedo a suspiciously attractive edge. God Almighty, Sam thinks. I'm a terrible human being. "I thought we'd be alone. I'm so sorry."

Natasha bites her lip and her shoulders shake with contained laughter. "Sam, help me look for any data carrier," she says after a minute, tossing her purse and heels aside. They find a laptop and a couple of USB sticks in under five minutes. Natasha pulls out three separate pieces of plastic out of her necklace and assembles it into a hard-drive, and begins frantically typing and copying information, pausing only when the computer beeps angrily and demands a fingerprint to boot up. As its owner is readily available, this presents no obstacle, so Sam indulges in making sure the unfortunate victims of Bucky' panic live to see another day, which means it's perfectly understandable that he completely misses the moment Steve starts falling down.

"What just happened?" he asks, slightly stunned. Both he and Natasha stare at Bucky, who looks down at Steve, who's in a mostly upright position only because Bucky' has his arms around his chest.

"I stole your lipgloss," Bucky says, eyes wide, and sure, now that Sam is looking, the light catches in the pink of his lips, and the wet gleam is smudged well into his cupid's bow, glistening bright on Steve's mouth, too.

Natasha starts laughing. She steps away from the laptop and sinks into the chair by the wall, giggling helplessly, while Steve twitches on the floor, not convinced by the necessity of sitting.

"Uh—shouldn't we make sure he's okay?" Sam asks, but he's not far from kicking himself for missing the important bit (he had money riding on getting photos, goddamn it!) and roaring with laughter simultaneously. Because honeytrap much, Steve? On the other hand… "How potent are the drugs, exactly?"

"I'm amazed it even worked, to be honest," Natasha manages in between guffaws. Somehow, Sam is not surprised to see her spraying glitter. "It wasn't designed with super-soldiers in mind, but it was designed for maximum kissability, so I can't say I'm surprised you fell for it."

"Shut up," Steve slurs and slowly slides to the floor, all the while clinging to Bucky' shoulders. Bucky sinks alongside him, running his gloved fingers through Steve's short hair.

"Poor Steve," Natasha says, without the faintest trace of compassion.

"You said it." Sam watches poor Steve, splayed out on the floor of the luxury suite, lying across his boy's lap with his head tucked into the latter's shoulder, and thinks, "you lucky, lucky bastard."

"Hey Bucky," he asks, because it's getting a little too lovey-dovey for his tastes, "where did you get the suit, anyway?"

"Tony gave it to me."

"I figured, but even Tony can't make a suit on the fly, at least I assume he can't."

"He offered when Steve was being fitted. I didn't think I'd need one, but he said I might as well, his tailor likes a challenge and he was tired of my sweater," Bucky says, clearly affronted on behalf of the wooly monstrosity.

"Let me say then, on behalf of all of us with eyes, thank you, Tony."

Natasha smirks. "Don't tell him that, he'll get a swelled head."

"Tony? Tony Stark? Never!"

"How are we going to get out of here?" Bucky asks, looking up at the unconscious trio on the bed.

"Huh. Well, Steve needs assistance, so I'm guessing you take him and try your luck with the back door, Natasha and I will go back to the party and mingle some more?"

"Good plan." Natasha closes the laptop with a snap, separates the pieces of the drive and conceals them in her jewelry. "The hotel cameras are still off on this floor, and I'm going to disable everything one floor below us, so that you can get out of the elevator there. It's best if you go through the fire escape and out the back door."

Bucky nods and picks Steve up as easily as if he were lifting a baby kitten.

"I'm fine," Mr. Tough Guy slurs.

"Don't believe him. He tried to leap out of the hospital bed with three bullets in his stomach," Sam says without thinking, unprepared for the trembling, teary-eyed looked Bucky sends his way.

Oops. Should have remembered who put those bullets there, he thinks with a wince and backs off. "No, it's cool. We got this. You get out of here, everything's gonna be fine."

"James," Natasha says. "You did good. If I may ask, the lipgloss is good for one kiss only, what happened there? Were you expecting more bodyguards?"

Bucky flushes a deep cherry-red and looks down at his shoes. "I thought he might want to kiss me," he admitted in a hushed whisper. "He didn't, really, um, want to kiss. So I panicked and pinched him. Only it ended up being a little loud, and his guards came in, so I pinched them too."

Before Sam can formulate a response Captain America casually lifts a leg and kicks their unfortunate target in the balls. Of course the movement upsets his balance enough that he has to rely on Bucky to remain upright, but the damage is done, and Dunayevsky comes to with a half-strangled scream.

Thank God Natasha has that bottle of perfume handy; the precious seconds of the Russian diplomat staring at the four of them with half-dazed eyes were among the tensest moments of Sam's life, and he is acutely aware that it's not even his own face he's presenting to the poor sod.

"Can we please go now?" he whines and poof the magic dragon, they actually leave.

He tries not to hold it against Steve that, when they regroup in the tower, Sam and Natasha do so in front of closed doors, beyond which god only knows who is being peeled out of their extremely well-tailored tux. Things are certainly happening, because the door is locked, but all things considered

"Beer, pretzels and wild supersoldier sex-related speculations?" Natasha asks, fingertips dancing across her necklace, the data-carrying components of which have already been fed into the servers of Tony's tower.

"I thought you'd never ask."

And then the world is hoodies and sweatpants, cold beer and amazing, warm, fresh pretzels which Natasha whips up for the hell of it, just because she can. She snuggles into the couch cushions, her pale face clear of all makeup and yet shining in a nest of red curls and a grey hood, and she smiles at the TV screen, while Sam queues up a show. And he thinks, yep, this is living.

THE END

Bonus: This is Bucky's before-and-after shot.

**Author's Note:**

> I admit: this story was written for one reason and one reason only. You can probably guess which one. XD
> 
> For more of my scribblings and art, or simply to say "hi", go to [my tumblr](http://keire-ke.tumblr.com/).


End file.
